Reality
by StarstruckLily
Summary: Despite my reputation as a hardassed, toughasnails Brooky, there’s really only one type of person I can’t stand. The delusional people who think the life of a newsie is easy.


"Reality" by Tigerlily

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Despite my reputation as a hard-assed, tough-as-nails Brooky, there's really only one type of person I can't stand.

The delusional people who think the life of a newsie is easy.

Those hoity-toity folks, with their fancy clothes and big houses, they just don't get how hard it is for us. Yeah, we get by okay most of the time… but we're just kids. Do you think your little rich brats could survive if you threw them out on the street? Would you ever send your beloved, spoiled darlings to fend for themselves on the hard streets of New York City?

I know you've heard the stories about what happens in the alleys when no one can see. I sell you the papers every day that bear the grisly headlines. "Nine Year Old Girl, Raped And Murdered In A Back Alley Of Brooklyn!" I ain't proud of it, but the headline is a different version of that same story every day… and that isn't even a portion of what really goes on in the underworld of New York.

The Bulls, those uniformed men who tip their hats at you when you pass them in the street, the ones that protect you? They don't do a damn thing to protect the working kids of New York, the ones who really need them. You remember that riot in Brooklyn a while back? They started it. They beat us up, tried to stop us from standing in the street to watch Teddy Roosevelt pass. I saw my newsies' skulls bashed in, eyes blackened, bones broken, all by those who should have been preventing those things from happening.

Our fellow newsies ain't always much better. The kids from Manhattan and the Bronx are the only ones you can really trust most of the time. Everyone else would stab you in the back for a crust of bread or a few extra pennies. There are constant wars between the boroughs over boundary lines. Spies and assassins run rampant, spilling the blood that seems to flow like water in the streets of the shattered heart of Brooklyn.

We live so close to death. The first thing a newsie here in Brooklyn learns isn't how to sell the papers, as you might expect. It's how to fight. We have to teach them that before they can step outside the door of our crumpled warehouse of a home. As soon as a kid joins the ranks of the Brookys those who oppose us mark him for death.

Every day out here on the streets is a test for survival. Running from the Bulls, fighting our enemies we've somehow made in our fellow children, attempting to sell the papers well enough to earn a roof over our head and a crust of bread… you and your damn brats think it's all a game to us. If this is a game, then you're more than welcome to come play. In fact, me and my boys sometimes talk about how long some of you would last.

The woman who buys a paper from me everyday, the one that pays with a nickel and tells me to keep the change? I give her a week. The brats she sometimes has with her? Maybe a couple of days, unless some borough leader was kind enough to take them in. I have yet to see a rich person that would last more than two weeks on the streets in New York. You scorn us for not working hard enough to live the same way you do, but we work ten times as hard as you just to survive.

Sometimes I wonder what we're living for. If you went to one of the Lodging Houses, any of them, and started asking boys what they wanted out of life you'd be surprised at the answers. 'Get Trixie to go out with me.' 'Sell a hundred papes in a day.' 'Beat Cards at poker.' We don't have the usual dreams of normal children. We're all holding out for something… but sometimes I wonder if what we're holding out for will be worth it in the end.

My best friend, Jack Kelly, says that I'm too pessimistic. Personally, I think I'm the only realistic one of the two of us. He has this dream that one day he'll get to Santa Fe… me, I think I'll be lucky if I live long enough to have an occupation other than my current life as a newsie. Even then I won't be safe; despite being one of the most feared and respected of New York's newsboys, most despise my existence enough to risk anything to ensure my departure from this world. So I make no plans for the future, keep myself from wishing that tomorrow will be a brighter day.

Instead I straighten my cap, sell my papes, and face the world with my head held high.

After all, if you holdyour head high, then no one can touch you…

Except in the world of the newsies.

Down here, everything and everyone is fair game.

-fin-

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AN: Written for the banner's "Words and Meanings Contest, part Deux".

Category: Dark

Phrase Bank:

"We live so close to death."

"We're all holding out for something."

Please leave a review with an honest opinion!


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